


Bring the lion out

by meinposhbastard



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (sort of), (though don't go looking for accuracy), Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - War, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, M/M, Roman Empire, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-20 14:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16557782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/pseuds/meinposhbastard
Summary: Once — only once — did Will meet the man’s gaze as he passed by his cage before a soldier pushed Will along. The Beast. That’s how they chant his name in the Arena.If — ice runs down his spine at thewhenthat his mind whispers — he gets out of his shackles, there will be no account to the death he’s going to rain upon the Romans.





	Bring the lion out

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into this fandom with a piece of my own. The existence of this fic is entirely the fault of [Saint Mesa - Lion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22c5BtjuanA/). Now I can't listen to that song without thinking about the scene where Hannibal prowls towards Will. Half of this was written with that on repeat. The other half was written with Lion and [ Really Slow Motion - Deadwood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LO3LZohKCnE/) on repeat. They're both BAMF songs.
> 
> Also, Lion gives this fic its title XD

* * *

 

Once — only once — did Will meet the man’s gaze as he passed by his cage before a soldier pushed Will along. The Beast. That’s how they chant his name in the Arena. They hold him shackled, heavy wood keeping his wrists at shoulder level as it binds his neck.

He hurries along the torch-lit tunnel, on one side cells, on the other small windows through which air and sound infiltrates. Another gladiator was brought back gravely injured. This one belongs to a rich Consul who wants to keep him alive until he gets back every coin spent on his contract. It’s rough and nasty and Will asks himself again and again and again how he ended up here, in this fucked up situation.

No answer comes forth.

He leaves the unconscious slave to sleep the pain away and slips into another cell where, what he can only think of as a veteran (he’s the oldest slave they have there), sits on the ground, back to the wall, freshly trimmed beard and shaved head making Will cock an eyebrow as he kneels at his side to check on the twisted ankle.

“You’ll need another week for this.”

The man spits on the other side.

“Have no such luxury, _medicus._ Need to be out there tomorrow.”

Will shakes his head. “If you go out there then you can be sure you’re going to break it, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.”

“Tell that to my patron.”

Will sighs. He’s the only one out of the rest of the slaves with whom he can talk to freely about whatever strikes his mood. Not that he has that kind of time, but whenever Will visits, they strike up conversation about this or that.

Two soldiers pass by the cell and they fall silent, Will putting back the ointment he used on the ankle. He can’t help but catch the tail end of what the Romans are saying. Words like ‘beast’ and ‘shackled’ and ‘bit off Mettius’ hand’ tell Will exactly who they’re talking about.

He glances up and meets the knowing gaze.

“You’re curious about the Beast.”

Will slants his eyes, late in denying that statement. The other chuckles, though there’s a distinct lack of humor in it.

“Hannibal,” he says and Will’s gaze finds his again. “That’s his name. They caught him four months ago. Advise you to not go near him. Last _medicus_ lost an ear to that animal.”

Will blinks and lets that information sink in. He nods and leaves, mind churning with this inexplicable need to find out more. After all, what does one do when his entire existence has been reduced to tending to wounded slaves and nothing else?

He’s a naturally curious man. Getting to know the slaves is the closest he can come to keep his mind occupied in this horrendous, bloody, and dangerous living library he has.

 

***

Enough riled, wounded, warriors-turned-slaves passed beneath his hands these past months to ignore their growls or snarls. Some have a good growl that makes Will hesitate for a moment before he reminds himself that the idiot needs Will’s help if he wants to survive. Others have a snarl that makes Will’s tongue tickle with the need to tell them to _try harder._

But Hannibal— Hannibal doesn’t need to do any of that to make Will feel deeply unsettled and like they locked him in with a savage predator, although he can get in and out whenever he wants. There’s a quiet strength to him, not unlike that of a feral animal waiting for its prey to get closer. If — ice runs down his spine at the _when_ that his mind whispers — he gets out of his shackles, there will be no account to the death he’s going to rain upon the Romans.

But the Romans aren’t stupid. They keep him bound when he’s not in the Arena fighting for his life, and for Rome’s entertainment.

His satchel dangles lightly from his left hand, the cell door clanging shut at his back. The man’s gaze is cool and assessing. Will would get a better reading of his face if he didn’t have that horrible muzzle made of leather that covers his mouth.

How does he even eat?

“What did they do to you?” he whispers before he can catch himself.

Hannibal doesn’t move or let Will out of his sight. There’s only the raspy sound of the man’s breathing, and Will wonders briefly how he can relieve himself with his hands bound up like that, but Hannibal’s kneeling on a portion of soft ground and Will thinks he knows how.

“They told me you were wounded,” he says in Latin; no response. Surely the mask doesn’t impede him to talk. “I’m a healer and I will treat your wounds,” he tries in Greek.

Hannibal doesn’t move or show any sign that he understands Will. With reluctance, Will approaches him, stopping two steps away from him, assessing his body. He’s only covered in a muddied cloth that covers his groin, which means that Will can inspect him without needing to touch the man. He pays heed to warnings.

Hannibal has a few gashes on his chest, left bicep, and partially dried blood on the left temple, all the way down behind the muzzle. He kneels on one knee as he places his satchel slowly on the ground in front of the man. Will has always believed that communication can solve a lot of problems, but if Latin or Greek won’t help here, then he needs to put in a bit of effort and try speaking Punic to the best of his abilities.

“Let me help you,” he says in Hannibal’s language, spilling in broken consonants and half-shaped vowels. “You’re badly injured. I can help.”

But he fears he might have put the accents in the wrong places or spelled words the wrong way because the man’s gaze doesn’t change, it remains dark and shielded.

Will shows him the cloth and the little jars with ointment he’s going to use to clean the wounds and protect them from infection. Hannibal remains silent, his gaze moving slowly down to look at the items in Will’s hand. There’s blood drying on his left eye and Will fears he’s going to lose sight in that eye, if he doesn’t get to clean it.

So he braves the ‘Beast’, hoping, ironically, that he’s lost enough blood that he’s groggy and won’t sever any part of his body, although the Romans did a nasty job at denying him the ability to do harm.

He finds, as he gets down to work, that the man either endures pain like no other slave Will has had to treat before or his body has become numb to the pain considering the state he is kept in. The time it takes Will to clean the caked blood on his left temple, Hannibal doesn’t tear his eyes away from Will’s face. It’s a bit unsettling.

He watches Will like a predator would watch his cub try to appeal to his lesser predatory instinct; a bit of curiosity and a lot of amusement. Will would like to disagree. He’s not that defenseless. You lose the innocence once you do what he does for as long as he has, but he’s not sure if the man even understands him. He’s tried Latin, Greek, Hannibal’s own language, and so far he’s had no response from him.

He finishes applying ointment where it’s needed and then packs his satchel with a slowness uncharacteristic of him. When he’s done, hand tightening over the looped strap around it, he glances up, lips parting to voice the chaos in his head.

He’s met with shadowed eyes, calm breathing and something that feels a lot like waiting for the punchline. As if they’ve been in a deep and long conversation for the whole time Will tended to him and now Will is preparing to deliver the conclusion.

He purses his lips, eyes gliding down to the satchel in his hand. He nods to himself and leaves without meeting Hannibal’s gaze again.

 

***

They shove Hannibal back into his cage, four soldiers wrestling him down on his knees, the wooden shackles at his neck and hands, and the muzzle back in place.

Oh, no. Not this time.

“I need to clean his wound,” Will says, what he has started to call medical indignation bleeding into his words as he takes a step forward.

He had been waiting for Hannibal to return because he intersected him as they were escorting the man out into the Arena. It was with grim determination that he didn’t move from the open cage until he saw the soldiers mostly carrying the man back. He was muddied and bloodied, but Hannibal still had fire in his limbs and was opposing the manhandling at every step.

No sound escaped him, though, no grunt or snarl, nothing except elaborate breaths.

But when they shackled and muzzled him like a vile creature who cannot be let without either, Will decided that his medical expertise could keep this man alive for _so long_ if they didn’t let him tend to _every_ wound. Case in point, the blood on his face was not entirely another’s; he saw the gash on his left cheek.

“He tore Parminius’ throat out,” one of the soldiers scoffs, not even pausing in his short, angry moves.

“I think you mean his jugular,” Will says drily, earning himself a mutinous glare from the Roman, so Will tones down his sarcasm to something that the general populace passes as polite and humble. “I need to clean his face otherwise you won’t have a Beast tomorrow. He’s wounded and that wound will become infected with another’s blood. Please let him stay without a muzzle.”

This time they pause at the last belt loop, exchanging glances with each other. That’s exactly what he needs. He steps aside, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I won’t be the one to take responsibility for Rome’s entertainment’s sudden death. Rome likes to see her gladiators die in the midst of her cheering, not hidden away underground. But if you think that you can brave her wrath at being denied the ultimate entertainment, then be my guest.”

Usually this kind of backhanded manipulation doesn’t work with the soldiers. They received orders, so they’ll respect them until a higher up says otherwise. In any other circumstances, this trick wouldn’t have worked, but here they falter. Technically, Will sees the reasoning passing from face to face, the order to keep him muzzled was given two weeks ago after the _medicus_ debacle. He hasn’t hurt any other person while being in his cage. Not that many visited him; in fact, except Will and another slave, no one has dared step inside.

“He almost killed the last _medicus,”_ another one finds himself saying, but even to his ears the protest comes slow and without much heat.

But Will has eyes only for Hannibal.

“I am aware of that,” he says.

One of them nods and then starts unbuckling the belts slowly. Another dares threaten their prisoner with pain and cruelty if he doesn’t behave, of which Will almost snorts out loud before he reigns himself in.

The moment the mask comes off completely, the guards take a step back almost at the same time, whereas Will grimaces in sympathy at the caked blood, dried in some place and oozing from one. He takes his satchel and steps forward, already dismissing the soldiers for the nuisances they are.

He’s dabbing at the cheek opposite the wounded one when he realizes the situation he is in. There’s a minute pause in his movements, eyes flickering up to meet a gaze that makes Will shiver.

Coiled shadows lurk beneath the dirty eyebrows, poised, dangerous, but not threatening. He decides to ignore how close he is to the mouth that severed a slave’s jugular not long ago. It takes him a long time to clean Hannibal’s face and throat of the blood and uncover a nasty wound that almost pierced through the cheek; he applies the salve with the utmost care, always glancing up for any sign of discomfort.

Apart from the steady breathing, Hannibal doesn’t move otherwise. A sudden thought tells him that he doesn’t even blink, but that’s ridiculous, there’s enough dust in the air to make Will blink repeatedly.

“I’ll tell them to keep that hateful thing off until the wound heals,” Will tells Hannibal in Latin, too tired to consider any other language.

They both cast a glance at the muzzle that lies innocuous a few steps away from them.

“Actually, I’ll clean that thoroughly.” He meets Hannibal’s gaze, and in doing so he takes his time inspecting his face for any other wounds or dirt, but he sees none. “I’m sorry I can’t do more. They’ll probably agree to keep it off until tomorrow after your fights.”

When no answer is forthcoming, not that Will expects any considering their last encounter, he puts his medical supplies back in his satchel, stands up and dusts his loincloth, then he takes the mask in his hands. Before he leaves, though, he looks down at the man, light orange paste drying on the wound.

He doesn’t know why, but something possesses him to whisper, “I hope you get out alive from this filthy hole,” which has Hannibal cock his head to one side, eyes calculating, but warm. This is as much as Will can endure after stating such a thing, so he leaves to talk to the guards and, hopefully, kick those words deep within himself where nobody can unearth them, not even he.

 

***

All around him, shouts and pained cries fill his ears, the smell of earth, dust and copper making him wrinkle his nose.

No. This is not his usual nightmares. He knows how they feel, how they make him think. This is different, grittier and real in a way that his dreams lack completely.

The underground tunnels are in chaos and Will’s not sure which direction he should go. A soldier runs him down and before Will blinks, the man screams something in Latin that’s too fast and broken by the fear in his voice for Will to catch.

But then he glances back in the direction the soldier came from and his heart almost stops in his chest.

Hannibal’s prowling towards him, steps measured, military, one hand coated in blood up to above his wrist, so fresh it’s still dripping.

If that’s how Death comes for Will, then he will not cower in fear and beg for his life. He stands up, dusts his palms off and squares his shoulder. If Death is coming for him in this shape, then he’ll meet him with his chin raised and defiance painted all over his face.

Hannibal stops a mere step from Will, corded muscles shifting under the torch’s light, glistening skin shining, blood sluicing down from his mouth, on his chin, neck and torso. The short puffs of breath smell metallic and hot, his eyes dancing dangerously in the feeble torchlight, devouring Will as if he’s the main course. Hannibal’s other hand is scraped and his legs are muddy in places.

He’s been fighting his way here.

Will’s breath is surprisingly calm. His whole body is relaxed, waiting. He wonders how Hannibal will kill him. There’s no sword anywhere on or near them, no other weapon. Hannibal’s regarding him, and if it wasn’t for the still fast breathing, he’d have described it as a look people get when they wait for something with bated breath.

Will’s about to take a step forward, to force him to make the first move, but just then Hannibal’s expression changes, eyes glancing up, a snarl contorting his face before Will’s world goes dark.

 

***

He’s surrounded by the distinct smell of fur and skin, then ashes and burned wood. There’s someone else breathing not far from him and the soft sound of material scraping across a hard surface. His leg shifts and it’s fur he’s lying on, warm and welcoming the way his cot in the cell appointed to him had never been.

He’s almost too afraid to open his eyes, but he’s been a curious creature since before he could articulate words. The first thing he sees is Hannibal, dressed in deep brown trousers that look distinctly Roman and an aged fur covering his back, the skin of a brownish color. It doesn’t have the shape of any animal Will has seen around Rome.

And this is where his regrets for not being able to travel more come.

Hannibal stops shuffling the maps on his makeshift table and glances back at him.

“How are you feeling?”

It takes Will’s brain a long time to realize that the only reason why he understands what Hannibal’s saying is because the man speaks Latin. He blinks twice.

“Good. I think.” his jaw works. “You speak Latin?”

He nods without offering more information and rolls up the maps, taking one and pushing it into a black tube, after which he goes towards the tent’s flaps and pushes one away to give the container to another person Will’s not able to see.

Not that he doesn’t try, but when he lifts his head, a splintering headache strikes like lightning. He groans and curl in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut. When the headache subsides and he blinks them open, Hannibal is seated on the cot, assessing him with that shielded gaze of his, though now, in the natural light from the outside filtering in through the tent and the fire crackling in the middle of it, it appears warm— almost inviting.

Is this the same man that he treated, muzzled and shackled as if he was Rome’s gloom and doom kept on hold by sheer Roman arrogance and greed?

“What happened?” he whispers, peering up from under the forearm that’s lying on the side of his face. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

Hannibal stares at him, his hand, the same one that was dripping blood before Will went out, on the cot between them, waiting. Will knows what it can do; what this cultured man (because he can’t have such a good accent and mastery of language if he didn’t receive an education) is capable of doing with his bare hands.

“We’re on the outskirts of Rome, and I brought you here. Jabnit hit your head before I could stop him.”

“Why?”Hannibal blinks, a lazy action, so Will elaborates. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Tell me, why didn’t you cower in fear when I came? Aren’t you afraid of dying?”

Will frowns and moves his arm to lie on the fur, not too far away from Hannibal’s.

“Why should I be when I’m surrounded by death anyway?”

There’s amusement and approval suffusing Hannibal’s eyes and Will finds himself appreciating the sight the same way he’d appreciate the limited number of Greek sculptures in Rome. Someone interrupts them and Hannibal stands to take a plate and bring it to Will. There’s meat and a thick slice of cheese, and Will’s stomach wakes up with a growl.

He winces, pushing himself slowly to sit up, but Hannibal’s gaze holds only amusement, so Will digs in and cleans the plate in record time.

“Why did you bring me here?” he says again, watching as the man (his kidnaper?) places the plate on the table before turning to assess Will.

It’s hard not to fidget under the fur and realize that apart from a loincloth, there’s nothing else covering him. Still, he pushes himself up as best he can to lean against the semi-hard pillows.

When no answer comes forth, Will sighs and shakes his head. “So I’m war spoils. A slave to be used for whatever you or the others deem necessary.” Then, lower, “figures. Should’ve expected as much.”

“Tell me, did you always work at the Arena?”

Will narrows down his eyes at the obvious deflection. Is there anything else he has to lose? He’s basically a prisoner here; Hannibal’s prisoner. From one prison to another.

“No,” he says, frowning down at the hands currently lying useless in his lap. His head throbs and he has to close his eyes and take deep, slow, breaths.

“Where are you from?”

“Why so many questions when you haven’t answered mine?”

“I’m curious to know more about the Roman I saved.”

So that’s how he sees himself: a savior. Well, fire will rain upon Rome before Will will kneel and worship this man.

“Born and schooled in Rome,” Will mutters.

Hannibal doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the table.

“You took the path of a healer.”

“Like fish to water. It’s the only thing that I’m good at and makes me feel useful.”

He doesn’t look Hannibal in the eye as he says this, mostly because he’s not as proud of that as he makes it sound. Not after all the time and energy and coins his benefactor put into making an advocate out of him as to continue the family legacy.

Hannibal hums, but does not come forth with other questions. When the silence stretches too far into the awkward territory, Will glances up at the man. It’s only because Will has sheer amounts of stubbornness that he maintains that piercing gaze for longer than he’s been able to with any other person. Something about this wrapped up creature, with its shadows coiling like snakes in his eyes, the lax posture, the calm exuding from every pore, makes him stay his tongue, waiting. It frustrates Will to not be able to read him the way he so easily read every other Roman he came into contact with.

He’s frustrated because it’s easier to feel that and it keeps him alert than to give in to the fear of not knowing what to expect from Hannibal.

“What happens now?” he asks because he cannot stay his tongue any longer.

“What do you wish to happen?”

“Why won’t you give me straight answers?”

Hannibal’s expression drips amusement. “What do you want me to say, Wilhelm? What happens next is up to you.”

Will’s mouth opens and closes like the fish his benefactor kept in his inner garden.

“Then why didn’t you kill me if you have no agenda for me? Why burden your escape when you could’ve done away with me?”

Hannibal blinks. “You wanted to die.” There’s not enough intonation at the end to make it a question.

Will averts his gaze. “I was expecting to. I was certain when I saw you heading my way. But you never delivered the final blow. Why? I’m your enemy. A Roman. The same ones that captured you and forced you to entertain Rome for months.”

At that Hannibal’s gaze darkness, rage shimmering to the surface. His whole expression changes from placid to creases and seething storm.

“You are,” he begins, low and measured, “a Roman. But you are not the ones who imprisoned me. They’re all dead now.” Will waits, letting the man pierce through his soul as they, once again, stare at each other. “I confess I am not sure why, exactly, I saved you. You were the first one to look horrified at how I was kept, the first one who treated me with humanity and the first one who stood his ground instead of begging for his life. I believe that I saw a kindred spirit in you and decided to spare you.”

Old fear and rage that never belonged to him surfaces, and before he can stop himself, he grits out, “I’m nothing like you!”

Hannibal doesn’t look perturbed by that, and Will averts his gaze once again when it becomes too much to stand.

“You’re free to go,” he says as he pushes himself up and heads towards the entrance of the tent. “My men won’t harm you.”

Will’s gaze stares unseeing at the outline of the man’s shape for a long time after he disappears, unable to string two thoughts in a row.

 

***

He’s fast to duck when the shield comes flying at his head, and it feels like a twisted version of approval for finally daring to leave the safety of the tent. Hannibal didn’t return and he became restless after what felt like several hours have passed since they spoke to each other. Laughs break from the warriors training further up on the small hill flanking the camp. Will looks back at the shield that’s now lying on the wet ground, innocuous.

So they think he can’t hold himself in a fight, hm?

He considers the group, their strengths and weaknesses, then shifts to the side where Hannibal and two others look like they were interrupted from an important conversation, and he catches the amusement in his eyes.

That, more than this blatant insult to his prowess, makes him pick up the shield. It’s a balance between heavy and light with iron forged round the edge and in the middle. His hand is small for the leather handles strapped on the inside, but his assessing is interrupted by a shadow. He has time to lift the shield and parry the blow, the warrior’s sword clinking loudly against the iron, the force behind it pushing Will back a step.

But he’s not somebody to be underestimated. He pushes the shield into the man’s front, taking him by surprise. The man falls flat on his ass as his heel catches on a mold of earth. The group at his back erupts into raucous laughter.

He watches as the warrior snarls and twirls his pelted body to his feet, stance position to attack. Will blinks.

Oh, shit.

He was definitely _not_ looking for a fight. He has a fucking shield that he can’t even handle well, for fuck’s sake! He glances at Hannibal, and sees only a mix of amusement and curiosity; his default state of being, apparently. One thing is clear, everybody’s attention is now on Will and the man he jostled to the ground in a moment of poor judgement. And that’s only because Will’s been taught by experience that when people push you, you push back.

Right now: literally.

The man spits something in his language, too distorted by the accent and dialect to recognize anything, and he frowns at him.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Will says, bringing his other hand up in a pacifying manner.

He spits more snarled words, and the men at his back begin chanting. Oh, Hades!

He doesn’t expect the attack this time, but the shield proves to be sturdy against the blows, even though all Will does is move it in such a way as to anticipate his opponent’s next blow. All the while, he’s forced to backtrack in a wide circle, until he finds himself with his back to the group. Despite not attacking in any way or form, Will finds himself breathing hard, his left arm pulsing, muscles reaching their limit. More blows, then, unexpectedly, the warrior dives and slams his shoulder into Will’s legs, throwing both of them on the wet grass.

He groans, the shield between them digging into his stern and pressing his arm into his ribs painfully.

The man grins above him, broken, yellow teeth a sight he’d like to bleach from his memory. The moustache is not long enough to cover that.

“Jabnit, enough,” Hannibal says from Will’s left, and to this day, among all of them, Hannibal is the only who actually speaks his own language in a way that a beginner like Will can understand.

Jabnit snarls and stands up, the group jostling him as they go towards the fire lit a couple of tents further down the hill. Hannibal offers a hand and Will huffs, pushes the shield to one side and accepts the help. Even with the cold wind blowing as hard as it does, Hannibal’s hand is warm.

“You shouldn’t have picked the shield up,” Hannibal says, the piercing gaze so close that Will drops his to his cheekbones instead.

“He shouldn’t have thrown it at me,” he retorts, frowning.

Hannibal huffs a laugh and releases Will hand.

“Though I begin to realize that this rough treatment won’t lessen any time soon.”

“It will not.”

“Understandable. I’m your enemy.”

“Not mine.”

That has Will’s eyebrow lift. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean. Aren’t you their leader?”

“I am.”

“So by extension, I’m your enemy, too.”

“No, you are not.”

“A little more information will go a long way towards shutting up the questions and prodding from my part,” Will says, the sarcasm biting.

Hannibal chuckles and begins walking, Will following without thinking, letting the matter drop. For now.

“I see you have not run away,” Hannibal comments idly.

“No, I haven’t,” Will offers, barely stopping himself from adding more information than what Hannibal deserves to know. If he’s not forthcoming with it, why should _he_ be?

Hannibal throws him a knowing smile and Will has a hard time tempering his own lips from curving up.

“Any reasons why not?”

Will would like to say that he caves in and asks that, but it sounds too much like he doesn’t care one way or another if he needs to ask more questions than necessary or not.

“None so far.”

Hannibal just shakes his head in what looks like defeat and amusement. Unfortunately, Will cannot follow him everywhere, but he has the foresight of showing Will where their healer’s tent is and then leaves to do whatever a leader in enemy territory does, as Will makes acquaintance with a scarred man who gives him a once over before he resumes mincing herbs and adding water to make a paste out of them.

It takes Will some time to get the man talking, mostly because Will’s not so good at Punic and the man speaks nothing but that. But once Will shows his knowledge on herbs and how many ointments one can make with the plants surrounding them, the man, Antios he finds out, becomes more relaxed in his presence and begins sharing what he knows.

Will is so immersed in the vast knowledge the man possesses on medicinal herbs (most of them what Will has only read in books) that he doesn’t realize that night has fallen over the camp.

It’s not hard to find his way back to Hannibal’s tent, mostly because the tents form only two rows. He’s a bit apprehensive when he slowly pushes one flap because there are murmurs coming from the inside, men discussing a plan with Hannibal. Well, it’s not hard to realize what kind of plan they’re talking about. Still, he has nowhere to sleep, so he returned to the only place he knows bar the healer’s tent.

Every single pair of eyes in the room zoom in on him as he freezes just inside the tent.

“Antios kicked me out,” he says, gaze solely on Hannibal since it’s only him that he cares answers to.

Hannibal barks a command after that and his warriors grumble, making faces, but comply without further ado. As Will makes way for them to leave the tent, one of them stops near him and Will realizes with no small amount of dread that it’s the man he fought hours ago. He can’t quite read his face, not that Will stares back as intently as the warrior does, but there’s a certain tension lurking beneath those pelts and old sweat smell.

“Jabnit,” Hannibal barks the name, a warning laced in his deep baritone.

The warrior grimaces and spits outside the flap before leaving altogether.

“You’re going to attack Rome,” Will says, not a question, but a statement that asks for an answer.

Hannibal busies himself with the maps strewn on the table, rolling them up and storing them away behind the mound of pelts near Will.

“Come eat.” He gestures towards the plate piled high with meat and some cheese.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, an automated response that he can’t stop.

“Then keep me company.”

Will does, but as Hannibal takes piece of meat after piece of meat, Will’s stomach awakens, so he dares take a drumstick from the pile. Hannibal doesn’t even look at him, calmly finishing his piece before he takes another.

“I am,” he says after a while, and Will’s jarred out of his thoughts, frowning at him. “I am going to attack Rome again.”

“They’ll be prepared.”

“I know. We’re counting on that.”

Well, that explains why no Roman scout has been spotted yet. They’re building up their defenses.

“I want to come with you,” Will finds himself saying. Hannibal levels a shrouded gaze on him, drumstick halfway to his mouth. “I won’t be in your way,” he hurries to says, feeling apprehension squeezing his stomach and chest. “I’ll stay behind and help with the wounded.”

“We are not occupying Rome,” Hannibal says, slow, as if he’s not sure it’s a wise decision to tell Will that much or maybe he thinks Will’s stupid.

“I know.” He frowns, places his drumstick down on the table, half-eaten. “You’ve been a thorn in Rome’s side since you first clashed with her troupes posted at the far borders. I don’t expect you to want to settle here.”

“How so?”

There’s a glint of curiosity in his eyes that Will catches before the man’s gaze falls down on his meal and takes another bite of the meat. He’s testing Will. But there’s too much curiosity laced with those words to make Will falter in his approach now.

“If you wanted to occupy Rome, you would have started with the settlements in the south of the Peninsula, leave warriors and your kin behind and then work your way up. But you only left ashes behind. You want to see the Roman Empire crippled. You’ve been working your way around its edges, slowly cutting down its legs until they captured you. You don’t want revenge; you’re past that point.”

Will takes his drumstick and bites, assessing Hannibal the same way Hannibal assesses him. It’s quiet between them for a while.

“But they brought you here. I don’t know the details of how that happened except what the soldiers brag about — and I know from experience that that’s never an accurate source.”

He pauses, twisting and turning the words in his mind, heartbeat faster with the churning thoughts and the truth that he sees in the glint reflected in Hannibal’s eyes from the lit torch.

Softly, almost with an undercurrent of awe, he says, “they’ve invited you right within the walls you could never come close enough to even see the shape of in the distance. They brought the lion to the feast, and now the lion feasts.”

Hannibal smiles, close-mouthed and Will is assaulted by waves of hot and cold, his heart a little bird fighting to escape its cage. He’s not sure if it’s dread he feels or a sense of anticipation that horrifies the morals he stole from people and stitched together to resemble his own.

Even before Will says anything in regard, Hannibal offers him a place on his cot, knowing that he has no other place to go to.

“You should leave tomorrow,” Hannibal says as Will is pulling the fur up to his shoulders. “We’re going to march north and then north-west towards Gaul. You should go east.”

Will doesn’t say anything to the man’s back, thinking about his words and ignoring the fit of disappointment that flares to life without shame. He wouldn’t exactly consider the man his friend, but until proven otherwise, Hannibal has not treated him with anything but respect and polite friendliness. So he doesn’t berate himself for expecting the Carthaginian to suggest he should stay with them. He does, however, berate himself for being prepared to jump at the offer should Hannibal have extended it.

In the quiet of the tent, when Hannibal is lying with his back to Will, his breathing almost inaudible, Will presses his lips tightly together to stop the words from tumbling freely.

“There’s no one waiting for me,” he whispers, part to himself and part hoping that the man he shares the cot with hears him. “Anywhere. I want to stay.”

 

***

Antios grumbles the whole way towards the east of Rome that’s not as heavily guarded as the other entrances (probably because it’s mostly wall). He’s been saddled with Will which means that he and Will will stay behind the group of warriors that marches into Rome without even trying to conceal themselves.

But that’s mostly because the warriors so like to instill panic into the Romans. There’s fire and screams, shouted words in at least three languages, and Will feels queasy, the mayhem something he knew to expect in theory, but reality proves to be ten times worse. In his mind there isn’t the smoke, the cry outs are muffled and like distant echoes, the sight doesn’t burn and make his eyes tear up, the wind doesn’t blow August hot and cloying and making his sweat stick to his cotton shirt beneath the simple armor they fitted him with.

In his mind, the scene is palatable.

This. Not so much.

He loses sight of Hannibal as he ducks down an alleyway to fight oncoming Roman soldiers, and Will is left to focus on his surroundings. The sword in his hand is heavy like his conscience. He did nothing to stop this. He didn’t even _want_ to. But now that he’s here, tasting the ashes and the desperation, he wishes to skip this and find himself already far away from Rome on their way towards the north. He wants to put all of this at his back, but he can’t.

Scuffles down a back alley they’re passing attracts his attention just as a soldier attacks Antios. He’s not afraid the man won’t get out unscathed from that fight because he man has been talking non stop about displeased he is for being ordered to the back of their attack formation; he’s been smelling blood for some time.

It’s when he catches the familiar sight of a snarl that his feet act, nimble and fast. The heaviness of his sword disappears as he rears it back and thrusts it through the Roman’s back, blood spraying all over Jabnit who’s been pinned underneath. They’re both breathing heavily when he pushes the limp body away, blood dripping from his sword and adding to the red pool between them.

No words pass between them, but Will knows deep down that understanding forms during these moments. Both their attentions are distracted in opposite way and they depart without any kind of acknowledging required.

He and Antios find a wounded warrior, and they make fast work of the gash in his thigh before the man gets up without even thanking them and jumps back into the fray. That’s when screams and the sound of broken vases reach Will’s ears from the house across the street.

When he enters, a warrior is pinning a woman to the table and is preparing to rape her although she keeps trying to dismount him with anything in her power or around her. In no time, Will jabs his shoulder into his ribs, throwing him to the ground. He snarls, jumping back to his feet, sword gripped tight in his hand, but Will’s is just as ready, still bloodied from his earlier kill.

“She’s no Roman soldier,” he says in Punic, his own insecurities leaving him just like that which make the words sound more natural now that they’re infused with anger and command. He feels in control here. “Leave.”

The man snarls again, but when Will doesn’t budge an inch he spits and leaves the house like a whirlwind. He doesn’t turn to ascertain that the woman’s okay as she scurries off at the back of the house, probably to hide or find her familiars.

More wounded fall in Will’s path and more soldiers he and Jabnit fight, but he doesn’t kill anyone afterwards. Whenever his sword is ready to deliver the last blow, he hesitates, the sickening squelch and subsequent iron smell of fresh blood spraying Jabnit sailing back into his mind. It’s Antios that takes away the guilt and finishes the kill.

But he’s not grateful and Antios doesn’t ask for any signs of gratitude.

They make their way to the richer part of the city where the Consuls and other powerful people reside, and he finds Hannibal atop the steps of a temple fighting three guards that manage to hold their own against such a creature like him.

Just by looking at how Hannibal fights, Will can taste the precision in every move, the bloodthirstiness simmering just beneath the surface. From the moment he met Hannibal’s dark gaze in the cells, Will’s hind brain knew that he was in the presence of a large predator that would kill and feast upon the largest one the Romans had knowledge of.

Hannibal is all the more dangerous because he makes calculate moves, never once failing to deliver a crippling blow.

But the last of the three guards is holding his own against him, and Will notes with growing dread that he’s using Hannibal’s tactics against him. The only thing Will can do is dodge the various fights happening around the _piazza_ and get there to help Hannibal. Or at least make sure that he doesn’t die.

He’s not sure when it became imperative to keep Hannibal alive, but here Will is, climbing stairs and getting in the way of the wide arc the guard’s sword is making as Hannibal lies wounded on his back, diffidently glaring up at his Death. Their swords screech as Will uses every ounce of force he has to push the guard back, and because he doesn’t even care about technique, he clashes their swords together blindly until he sees Hannibal move in the periphery of his vision, so he’s prepared to thrust his sword into the guard’s stomach at the same time as Hannibal twists his neck and the guard falls limp to the floor.

They’re both doused in blood and sweat and breathing heavily, but never before has Will felt such a deep connection to another person like he does now, meeting Hannibal’s gaze without a trace of fear or insecurity. He feels alive, an endless lightning thrumming and waiting to strike again and again.

He belongs here, next to this warrior.

Neither doubt that as Hannibal grins, teeth red, and Will mirrors the sentiment, feeling perfectly at home in this skin.

 

***

They’re tired so they don’t quite manage to leave the smoking clouds of Rome behind them, but they do manage to take refuge upstream river Albula to rest and wash away the blood and soreness.

He doesn’t see Hannibal after their fight, Antios requiring his skills to help mend the wounded so that they can keep marching north. By the end of the evening, Will’s so tired that he almost loses his footing when he stumbles into the river for a well-deserved wash. It’s the middle of August so it’s still warm out even though the half moon is high on the sky. He doesn’t realize he’s not alone until the sound of someone else wading in his direction makes him turn around.

“I see you haven’t run away,” Hannibal says, a warmth in his voice that speaks of amusement. “Or went to sleep.”

The water laps gently at Will’s chest and he finds it in himself to huff and then shake his head.

“Wasn’t able to do either with Antios breathing down my neck.”

Hannibal smiles, but Will’s not sure with the moonlight at his back.

“Thank you for tending to my warriors,” he says after a long stretch of silence in which Will passed his hands over his opposite shoulder and soaks his hair into the water to wash away the grime and blood.

“It’s the least I could do.” He shrugs, not meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “I’m good at tending to people.”

“You continue to intrigue me, Wilhelm.”

Will peers at him from where his head is thrown back to let the river take away the worst of today’s battle from his hair. Hannibal’s almost looming over him.

“How so?” he finds himself saying, with less energy than before.

“You have great skills at treating wounds and putting back together dislocated joints, but you also do not hesitate to take a man’s life.”

That has Will straighten up and frown, half turning away from Hannibal’s morbid curiosity that he can’t help but notice now that they’re a palm away from each other.

“It’s not true.” He can barely see his own hand under the surface of the black water. “I— those kills— they were my first.”

“Before we marched on Rome,” Hannibal says idly, though his gaze is intent on Will; it burns into the side of his face, “you told me that they brought the lion to the feast. But after what I saw at the temple, I am convinced that that lion is not me.”

Hannibal waits, but Will doesn’t know what to say to that, still grappling with the grim reality of those hands pushing a sword through two people who only wanted to protect their city. He doesn’t ponder on the fact that his city became _their_ city.

“Do you regret killing those men?”

Will opens his mouth, but when nothing comes out he meets Hannibal’s eyes and finds, surprisingly, that there’s no glee or triumph on his face; just mere curiosity.

“I don’t,” he says slowly. “As twisted as it sounds, it felt right killing them.” He searches Hannibal’s face when the man only nods, an inexplicable pull, that’s part the river current, part the strong man haloed by the moon, moving him closer still to Hannibal. “I think I won Jabnit’s respect,” he whispers, close to Hannibal’s mouth now.

Hannibal smiles, teeth peeking as he cocks his head a bit and presses his lips to Will’s fevered ones. He’s not sure what he feels at the moment, but he knows that he wants this to continue, explore each other as much as possible. Hannibal complies without hesitation and Will’s hands settle on the man’s hip, pressing them close, just as Hannibal’s hand cradles Will’s head and keeps his lips right where he wants them to be.

Nothing more than that happens in the river, although their cocks stir when the kiss becomes a bit more heated. They emerge like two predators prowling their territory; there’s no need to hold hands or smile at each other. They both know what they have, and it’s only theirs to know and share.

Around the campfire where all the warriors have gathered to exchange stories and drinks, Will finds himself scrutinized by a pair of eyes he remembers all too well. He’s sure something will come out of the glare, but he doesn’t know when or what.

Hannibal passes him the skin with the wine before he does the same with a plate containing meat and cheese. Will takes only a gulp of the wine before he passes it on, but the plate he cradles in his lap to eat at his own pace, distracted by bits and pieces of Punic he understands from around the raucous bunch. Even Hannibal laughs when somebody tells the story of how he waited for a Roman to finish his piss before asking politely if he could kill him.

It’s good and warm and companionable.

Until it’s not.

The various discussions move towards one common topic: the march north; and suggestions start flying around until they settle on a plan of attack. That’s when the man that’s been giving Will the stink eye the whole evening speaks out in such mangled Punic that Will is not sure he understood what was spoken.

The fact that the man glared at him the whole time, gives Will the inkling that he’s talking about him.

A hush falls over the happy campers and Will finds himself the center of attention. He turns an inquiring look at Hannibal who, apparently, is the only one who doesn’t stare at Will. In fact, his calculating gaze is entirely focused on the man.

“The reason?” he speaks in a Punic Will can understand.

The man spits into the fire, resulting in a short crackle. “He’s not one of us,” he says it with so much venom that Will feels a protest bubbling up in him, fists clenching, his whole body tense and ready to pounce.

“Is this because I didn’t let you rape that woman?” Will says in bad Punic, but good enough to be understood by everybody.

Hannibal’s hand is already there, in front of him to stop him from getting up. Or talking.

The man snarls, rising from where he’s been sitting, but Hannibal barks a word that might or might not be his name because Will doesn’t recognizes it, and the man collapses back, vitriol in his eyes that isn’t even directed at his leader.

It’s when Jabnit speaks that Hannibal’s attention is drawn away from the man and his hand returns on his thigh.

“The Roman proved himself in battle,” he says, surprisingly speaking Punic that Will can understand. “He killed one of his own without hesitation and saved my life. He’s one of us.”

“That proves nothing!” the other man jumps up.

Jabnit tears a piece of meat away and munches on it, reserving an unimpressed gaze for the man who seethes on the other side of the fire.

“He was alone with Antios multiple times. Although he can hold his own in battle, he wouldn’t have been able to parry a blow from the Roman if he wished to do away with our healer. He helped our Captain when he could’ve let him die at the sword of our enemy. He jumped right between the sword and him. There is desire to infiltrate the enemy camp and gain their trust to annihilate them from the inside, and then there’s this.” He juts his chin in Will’s direction and then takes a long swig out of the skin. “Just because you didn’t get to plunge that rod of yours in the Roman cunt because of him doesn’t mean he’s here with a hidden agenda.”

Will expects the man to drive further his point and try to paint an undesirable portrait of Will, but he spits again and leaves the gathering with curses falling from his lips. After that, everybody returns to their merry conversations, forgetting the event, and Hannibal only meets his gaze once, part acknowledge and part making sure that Will’s all right, before Will’s pulled into a strange discussion with Antios that involves mushrooms and parsley.

Late that night, warm under the covers and pliant in Hannibal’s arms, Will thinks he could get used to this nomad life.

“Do you want to march with me to the north?” Hannibal whispers into his nape.

“Will you let me go if I say no?”

Hannibal’s muscles twitch and Will’s not sure if it’s because he wanted to tighten his hold on Will or because he wanted to put distance between them. He expects an evasive answer because that’s how Hannibal goes through life.

“Not after what you did at the temple.”

“Then I will march north with you, Hannibal.”

It sounds like a promise for more than just companionship and a warm body in his bed.

 


End file.
